


Shut Down

by aslipperysloth



Category: Static Shock
Genre: Canon Character of Color, M/M, Post-Series, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslipperysloth/pseuds/aslipperysloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few moments in life when Richie is able to find peace. This is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Down

There are few moments in life when Richie is able to find peace. True peace; the times when he can just _be_ …just _exist_ without having to think about anything. He wants these moments back more than anything, but they’ve become increasingly rare these days.

In the beginning, when it was fun to get top marks in class for a change and no longer just be a superhero’s assistant-cum-‘dude in distress’, he hadn’t had full understanding of what it would be like to live like this: to not be able to finish one page of a comic book without solving some great universal mystery; to not be able to watch a movie without scribbling blueprints at the same time; to participate fully in a conversation with his boyfriend about something cool and interesting rather than try in vain to maintain eye contact and pretend he hadn’t lost the actual topic within the first ten seconds.

And they call his Bang Baby abilities a ‘gift’. Gift is too kind a word for what this really is.

The experience is more akin to being tethered to a freaking comet. It’s unstoppable, the endless stream of calculations and ideas and inventions and proven and disproven theories inside his head. Sometimes a hundred things hit him within the space of an hour – a minute, even, when it gets particularly bad. Although it could be worse – when he and Brainiac had ‘become one’, it had been a hundred thoughts per second, and that had been beyond terrifying.

The times when he wishes he could just get it to stop are the most difficult, though. When he’s running on two hours of sleep, because once he finally got his eyes to close for the night his brain was still screaming with activity, and in the midst of it all he just thinks, ‘Turn it off. Please, God, turn it off,’ and Virgil has to rush to take the screwdriver out of his hand before he tries to shove it through his own head.

One great thing about Virgil is that he’s not big on talking about feelings and therefore doesn’t mention these incidents; doesn’t make Richie feel insane or uncomfortable about them. He just comforts Richie with a cheery, “Take it easy. I got you,” downloads them some bad sci-fi movies, and orders take-out Burger Fool.

Despite everything, Virgil’s never made him feel anything less than normal. Richie’s _really_ grateful for that.

Virgil’s friendship works to fight against his brain a little. Not much, but it’s certainly better than long walks on the beach, yoga, meditation, shouting into the Grand Canyon, flower arranging, religion, drugs and all the other Googled solutions he’s tried over the years, anyway.

But there’s one method, one also involving Virgil, which is by far the best. And it’s definitely not something he’s complaining about.

“Jesus-” he groans, indecipherably, into the clump of white bedsheet that’s shoved into his mouth. (Last thing they need is more paranormal enthusiasts looking for the infamous moaning ghost of the abandoned subway tunnels, getting all up in their new HQ.) The entry is so hard and deep that it sends a wave of pure pleasure right to his very core. It’s a ‘shock to the system’ if there ever was one, because he’s sure he’ll be feeling it for a week.

Richie’s body, already straining to push back against his partner, runs on a sort of primal instinct. But his brain still goes through its usual stream of random information: _**Static**_ and _**non-trivial zeroes**_ and _**faster than light speed so close just need time metric expansion 3-dimentional vector field electrochemical potential of the electrons critical line Virgil charge electromagnet hysteresis emergency backup feels so good**_

Despite never being particularly thoughtful (but hey, nobody’s perfect), Virgil has thankfully always been so in tune with his needs that Richie doesn’t have to tell his best friend what to do; doesn’t have to ask him not to be gentle. So Virgil doesn’t give Richie any time to adjust to taking his not inconsiderable size because that discomfort, the ache of it, helps to give reality that extra push in the fight against the world inside Richie’s head.

Being ‘half-there’ for this just isn’t going to cut it.

Immediately Virgil rolls his hips, back a little before pounding forth, then again, and again, in search of the spot that will close the emptying floodgates just enough so that _**boundary conditions cos(**_ _ **π**_ _ **ν)=wI(**_ _ **π;a,q)=wI(**_ _ **π;a,-q) needs a waterproof suit extracting the coefficient of the matrix Bruce Wayne over S enclosed by C surface integral 010100110111010001100001011101000110100101100011000011010000 1010 what if the security protocols the new semiconductor can make new element ohhh**_ becomes a duller sort of roar. __

Yes. Yes, right there. _Right there_. Once Virgil finds the perfect way to thrust, he’s unrelenting. Richie can only clutch the pillow above his head in his clammy hands and hang on for dear life, continuing to whine his bliss into the sheets. Soon even that is taken from him, as Virgil snatches the pillow and uses it as support so he can hike Richie’s hips up even higher. When Virgil manages to find the perfect angle again, Richie tries to reach back to touch anything he can of the man to show his appreciation and encouragement but _**Interns come tomorrow** __**8.6173324(78)×10 −5 eV/K **__**uniformly accelerating**_ Virgil pushes the hand back to the bed and soon there’s onlythe sharp sound of skin hitting skin to focus on. _**Good yes maybe Unruh radiation is -**_

“Stop thinking,” Virgil demands, pressing more firmly into Richie’s back as he wrenches a fistful of blond hair back in order to speak, hot and heavy, right into Richie’s ear. To Richie there’s nothing better than being completely at the mercy of such power, such coiled strength, and he shudders with delight, goose bumps appearing on his increasingly flushed skin. “ _Feel_ it.”

Then Virgil’s lips are nipping at the ridges of his ear, tongue laving the sensitive spot where his earring meets his earlobe, while at the same time muttering the _filthiest_ things – things that make Richie’s fingers clench so hard they nearly rip the fabric under them and his eyes briefly shut so tightly that he actually sees colour. Even though they’ve only ever been with each other, Virgil is a pro at this, and Richie can’t imagine there being anything, any _one_ better. The man has a bedroom vocabulary that makes the dirtiest R &B track sound like it belongs on Sesame Street.

And he loves every second of it.

It’s – _**the black hole’s event horizon I think I can make a time machine immutable surface --------- oh god don’t stop -------------------------------- existential risk Backpack is ---------------- should take a sabbatical breathe ---- keep breathing**_ amazing.

Virgil then moves down to the opposite side of his neck, stopping to bury his nose in Richie’s still shower-damp hair on the way, before attacking the spot where nape meets shoulder. There’s no time for teasing – Virgil bites and sucks until Richie calls out his name and tries even harder to match the punishing cadence of his body.  Tomorrow there will be blindingly obvious marks leftover (way more embarrassing than the ones he gives Virgil – it sucks being a pale white guy sometimes), but it doesn’t matter, because everyone will know where they came from anyway. ‘Static and Gear’ are the Justice League’s biggest open secret, after all.

“Loosen up,” Richie hears, and he struggles to comply so he can take Virgil even deeper. Fuck, it feels like he’s going to split apart. “That’s it. Damn, you’re tight today. Flash get you that wound up? You gotta learn to ignore him,” Virgil says, not even bothering to keep the laughter out of his voice. Richie groans, not coherent enough to roll his eyes or actually say ‘You know damn well what’s got me wound up, you big jerk.’ It’s just too much, all these sensations bombarding him at once. The smell of Virgil – coconut oil, sex, the soap they use after patrol, the lingering hint of ozone. The feel of unsteady breath on his neck and the tickling, scratchy brush of Virgil’s dreads. The desire to tilt his head further, twist his body enough so he can taste Virgil, suck the sweat from his upper lip, see his face instead of having to look at a cabinet of spare zap-caps and Backback (who’s been suspiciously entering ‘Peeping Tom’ mode without its creator’s permission more and more lately) across the room.

But before he can do anything to change his position, the heat and pressure against him is abruptly lost and there’s cool air across his back. Virgil moves back and raises himself fully onto his knees, only to dig his fingers commandingly into Richie’s hips and pull him back to meet each thrust.

Hard. Fast. Brutal. Thank God he’s still slick and wet with lube. He can’t even classify this as lovemaking, really. Calling it anything other than fucking would be doing it a disservice.

_**\----------holy-------- God---if the displacement of the conductor--conduc-----just focus---------oh--------**_

“You feel so good,” Virgil then adds, and while it’s not a particularly dirty statement, the animalistic noises it draws from Richie’s throat would be humiliating if, at this point, Richie had any pride left. But he’s not above begging for release. In fact, he’s desperate enough to try to reach a shaking hand down to finish himself off, because he’s so hard he thinks he might seriously die if he doesn’t end this soon. As soon as his fingers shove in, trying to make room between the damp pillow and his own hard cock, Virgil suddenly runs his fingernails down his back. The stinging electricity leaves him red and aching. In fact it paralyses him completely. The pain banishes almost everything in his head except _**\---thank you thank you thank you---**_

And he howls so loudly that he can barely comprehend Virgil’s long fingers replacing his, barely hear the slick sound of practiced stroking that spreads the copious slickness he’s produced up, down _**-hard-**_ pressure _**-close-**_ _oh_ -

_**\----------------Virgil---------------**_

Comet meet planet. And then there’s nothing.

He’s remade. Rebooted.

It’s the closest he’ll ever come to absolute silence.

As the fog clears, he only gets brief snippets of reality: Virgil’s long drawn out moan as he pulses into Richie with a few final, jerky movements, strong muscles gradually losing their steady pattern of tension and release; the change in atmosphere from discharged electricity and the hair on his arms standing on end; the _thud thud thud_ of his own heartbeat in his ears. 

It’s beautiful. This moment is beautiful.

A few seconds later (minutes? He can’t tell anymore), Virgil pulls out of him, finally releasing the tight grip on Richie’s hips, and Richie makes a small whimper as he slumps, unsupported, into the wet spot. With the endorphins running through him and his limbs like jelly it’s hard to be concerned about that, though. He just lies there and lets Virgil curl up beside him, brush the hair out of his eyes, and lean in for a messy kiss that Richie’s not fast or lucid enough to properly return. But he enjoys it nonetheless. 

_**Love you** , _thethought intrudes, though it’s gentle as a breeze after the storm _._

“You good?” his partner asks, and it amazes Richie that Virgil can still be so concerned after so many times, so many years of being intimate like this. Sliding a hand smoothly from Richie’s hair to his back, Virgil brushes gently over the red streaks, likely to make sure they don’t need immediate attention. When Richie manages a weary nod, Virgil’s face relaxes into a familiar, almost goofy expression – the one that screams ‘I just got laid and it was awesome,’ dark cheeks flushed even darker with pleasure. It makes Virgil look sixteen again; makes Richie remember an awkward, messy, immature, _perfect_ first time in a teenage bedroom, when two boys lay side by side, stared up at a poster of B2K, prayed that Sharon didn’t hear what just happened, and felt so, so happy.

It’s a lovely memory, one he wishes his brain had room for more often. He’ll never get tired of it, of this. Ever.

“I’m fine,” Richie finally manages to verbalize. He’s still shaky and sore, and probably looks as thoroughly ruined as he feels, but it’s the truth. “Thanks.” He’s able to return a small smile before he starts to reach for his glasses on the side table. But Virgil catches his arm, gently.

“Rich,” he says, expression suddenly pleading and, sadly, also very familiar. The brief _**fixing Backpack I need to**_ soon disappears into the worried, brown eyes. “Not yet.” Virgil holds Richie’s head between his hands, his thumbs brushing lingering dampness from Richie’s cheeks and fingers lightly covering his ears as if to help him tune out the world. “Not yet.”

And without having to say anything more, Virgil holds him until there’s nothing again, until his breathing slows so their bodies are in sync once more. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out.

‘That’s right,’ everything suddenly seems to say, ‘just _be_.’

_**\----------------------**_


End file.
